Annie and Finnick
by IronCrest
Summary: Finnick and Annie's story chronicled from the 70th annual Hunger Games to the end of Mockingjay- starting from when they fall in love and encompassing all the twists and turns in between.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I slowly examine the face reflected in the small vermeil mirror hanging on my bedroom wall. It is striking- so different from what I had seen before. My eyes, though lightly lined, pierce through the glass like emerald orbs sharply contrasting with pale skin and cascading waves of chocolate hair. My lips, a soft, faint pink, tremble slightly in the reflection when I reach to touch them, and my lashes bat more than usual to quell imminent tears.

I see my mother's eyes. I see her lips. I see her hair. I trace the golden frame of the mirror she had left behind wondering how she would have seen me- what she would have said to me. Fighting back sobs, I shut my eyes and clutch the fabric of her violet dress that I am going to wear for today's reaping. I remember that she had worn it the day she had taken me fishing when my father hadn't brought home food.

_Hair billowing wildly with the wind, my mother, pulling our skiff with taut arms, tread barefoot through the sand, her eyes fixed on the tempestuous waves of the bay. I was seven at the time, and I stood a few feet away, watching her with frightened eyes. I had never seen her like this. She had always been the calm, collected woman who had somehow managed to carry out anything that came her way. Exactly how she had done it had always remained a mystery to me. _

_ "Annie!" she called as she bent down to rest her elbows on the skiff, "Hurry up!" I quickly jumped out of my thoughts and broadened the scope of my vision to notice that she had already reached the water's edges while I stood at the other end of the beach. Noting the graying sky and the desultory drops of rain, I quickly ran to her for cover. _

_ We had been fishing for some time and had caught nothing. Sensing a storm brewing, my mother, lest I would get sick, instructed me to go sit under the canopy covering, shaped by overlapping sails, while she once again lowered the fishing net into the water. _

_ "Annie," she said, as she came to join me after a few minutes, "we'll catch something, okay? There'll always be fish in our bay, and we'll find them." She put her arm around my shoulders and pressed me to her as she gently kissed my forehead._

_ "It doesn't look like it, Mama. I think we're lost." I replied hesitantly. She shook her head fiercely._

_ "We're not lost. I'd never get us lost, Annie. You'd never get yourself lost. You're too precious for that. We're all too precious for that. Only, the Capital doesn't get it," she went on looking off into the bay, "You know, a long time ago, before Panem, before the Capital, people were allowed to fight for themselves. Their Capital helped them fight for themselves. It's a right everyone has, Annie."_

_ "But the Dark Days," I murmured, now clearly shaken by my mother's words._

_ "They say the rebellion failed, and they show us every year that what we fight for is what we'll end up losing in the end. But that's not true, Annie. That's not real."_

_ "But what's real, Mama?"_

_ "You have to find out, Annie. That's why you have to fight."_

_ "We're lost aren't we, Mama?" I whispered. She shook her head and pressed me closer. _

Then, she had left me. I had been called out of school and had watched the peacekeepers give my father a sack of grain and a few apathetic condolences. The body was found lifeless in the bay with a weight tied to the ankle. Suicides were rare, but not unheard of.

"She slept around with the Peacekeepers," Mavis, a market woman, had added to the gossip. "I heard she was expecting another child and killed herself to get rid of it. She never really wanted Annie in the first place."

I remembered the funeral. I had cried all night and ended up writing a poem to read to her. I had folded the paper and stepped down from the podium into my father's arms completely broken. While my father spoke, I walked up to her casket and traced my fingers along its edges, my tears falling on her face.

"What about fighting, Mama?" I had murmured to her, "Wasn't that real?"

Finally opening my eyes, I wipe away my tears and compose my countenance. I would be strong. What else was there for me to do? How else would I survive? I would hold onto whatever I had, whatever seemed real, and keep moving forward. My mother had lost touch with reality. She had let go of her tether and had ended up losing herself. I would not do that.

Slipping into my sandals, I grab my purse and head out to the kitchen. My father was sitting at the table sorting fish hooks and wiping traces of early morning gin from his graying stubble. To me, he always seemed a vacant man- someone who just did what he was expected to do and was satisfied with it. He seemed so unaware, so lifeless. I watched age creep up on him in his repetitive chores and felt a sharp pang in my chest. When his elbow would crack or his breathing would go ragged, he would just pause and then continue on with his monotonous work. Did he realize that he was nearing fifty and that soon he would be sixty and then seventy? Did he see any sort of future for himself- for his daughter?

I sit across from him and nibble on a slice of bread, letting an awkward silence pass between us. As the clock nears ten, I start to fidget, and my father notices.

"You have nothing to worry about, Annie, someone will volunteer", he tells me. He's right. Our district is a career district, and I always see plenty of girls at the training centers. They seemed, to everyone, to be the pride of the district, the ones who would bring home glory. But I don't see them that way. When I watch a thirteen-year-old boy throw a javelin or a mother show her child how to handle a sword, I see killers. I see how people who lose themselves to what is and lose sight of what could be. And as they grow older, their reality shrinks to work and rest- stagnation and death. It feels like man can only be crowned victor at the expense of his brothers.

I hear a faint knock on door and grin at Phoebe when I see her standing at the doorstep. Her tall frame and large eyes make her look really pretty in her pale blue dress.

"Gosh Annie," she gushed, "You look stunning! You'd probably beat Finnick Odair as the next Capital heartthrob." I nudge her playfully as she snickers in reply. Phoebe and I had become inseparable after my mother's death. When I had sat alone on the beach, staring out across the bay, she would come over beside me and tell me the stories her father told her, while I, in return, would make-up some of my own to tell her. It was easy to be happy around her.

"If only the odds were ever in my favor, Phoebe," I intone, giving her a grim look and now wishing to get this morning over with as quickly as possible. Nodding to my father, I close the door and proceed to walk with her to the reaping.

At the forum, Phoebe and I stand together with the other sixteen-year-olds and fall into a silence. I watch the faces around me. Some look scared and clammy while others look composed and confident. When Pearl Paarz takes the stage, the crowd falls silent. She plays a heavily propagated video of the Dark Days and starts the Capital's anthem with a smile plastered on her face. A few minutes later, she begins introducing the past victors. First comes a middle-aged victor named Icarus, whose stocky stature and unpleasant expression make him look chronically constipated. A few more victors walk on stage, are applauded, and go stand in the corner. An older woman, Mags, makes her way out of the curtains taking little time to acknowledge the crowd before finding her place beside the other victors. She has a hard face despite her age, and I can't help but feel bad at how as an old woman, she still can't escape the games. At last, to appease everyone's anticipation and overdo the dramatics, Pearl goes off on a spiel about Finnick Odair, loading it with an interesting choice of adjectives until she finally pauses for a breath and Finnick walks out. Just as stunning as he had looked on television, he waves, flashes a killer smile, and crosses the stage as the crowd bursts into applause.

I sigh and try to give Phoebe a reassuring look, but it's obvious that the dramatics only go so far in easing our apprehension. My arms tremble as my palms begin sweating, yet I try my hardest to look strong. Pearl pulls the large, clear bowl with our names written on slips of paper from behind the podium and agonizingly swishes her fingers back and forth inside it. _Your name is only in their five times,_ I tell myself, _Even then, someone will volunteer. _

But then, in a clear voice, she says, "_Annie Cresta_". And no one volunteers.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

I see myself projected on the screen, my eyes wide and my fingers shaking. I brace myself and slowly make my way to the stage, just focusing on keeping myself steady. Everyone stares. They see their Annie. They see the Annie who, as a little girl, built sand castles and pretended to be a mermaid. They see the Annie who kicked Burly Brian in the groin when he tried to steal her ice cream. They see the Annie who, frantically searched the waves, screamed for her mother the night she went missing. They see the Annie who, after her mother's death, came back to school and didn't talk to anyone. They see her winning the annual poetry contest and reciting her poem at city hall. They see her composed and always smiling with the few she talked to. They see her silhouette lowering a fishing net into the bank of the bay in the early morning hours. They see _their_ Annie- the Annie they think they know. They don't see the real Annie. They don't see the girl who feels disconnected from everything around her. They don't see the girl who has nothing to hold onto. They don't see the girl who can't discern for herself the real from the unreal. They don't see how she's afraid of living, not dying. They don't see how she doesn't understand why she should fight at all for her survival. They don't see Annie.

On stage, the blood rushes from my face and my knees lock. I fix my eyes on the horizon, afraid to meet the eyes of anyone I know. They call the name of the male tribute, but I miss it. I find him in the crowd, walking from the group of seventeen-year-olds. He's a career, well-built and capable of fighting. When his pale grey eyes meet mine, I know that he's human, that it's hard for him too. Standing beside me as the sun reflects off his cropped black hair, he gives me a reassuring smile, and I try to return it.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" cries Pearl Paarz, "the tributes of District 4!"

Within moments, Peacekeepers usher me into a room attached to the side of the stage and shut the door when they exit, leaving me alone with my wild thoughts. The room looks fuzzy, and suddenly, I'm trying to hold onto everything. I scan the room, attempting to plaster it into my memory. Teal curtains with light circles cover the windows. As far as I can discern, the carpet is grey, the sofa is salmon, and the pillows are green, and for the moment, I'm safe, alive, and still in my home district.

There's a knock at the door, and Phoebe enters, her eyes brimming with tears. She just looks at me for a moment before running to the sofa and squeezing me into a tight hug.

"Annie", she pleads, "you're going to come out of there. You're smart, Annie. That's better than any brawn that they could have. You'll come home. I know you will." With that, she rambles on about how nothing would ever change when I would come back and how she'd come to my house at Victor's Village every day after her shift at the plant. I shakily laugh with her pretending that everything she said would really happen- until her time ends, and she is forced to leave me.

A few of my classmates enter, assure me that everything would be all right, and promise to cheer for me. As they leave, a wave of nostalgia hits me, and everything seems even more surreal. Mavis enters and tells me that I was always a good girl. She gives me a photo of my mother and her when they had finished school along with stack of paper and a few envelopes to write home while I stayed in the Capital.

When my father staggers in, my mind can't place him. To me, he looks like any other man. I don't feel any attachment, only a painful emptiness in my chest. We don't say much. I just sit still as he holds me. Before he leaves, he fastens a silver chain around my neck with what he says is an abalone seashell as the pendant. The look on his face tells me that it was my mother's.

We finally board the train, and I find myself leaning over the rail, watching how approaching trees somehow end up far behind me in fragments of a second.I wonder if my life would pass like that- blurring past my sight until it would reach its end. As we cross over a composite of strewn rocks, I am jolted up and down, and my mother's necklace keeps hitting my chest like a dagger. I miss my district. I miss my home, and I miss everything I love.

For a few minutes, I try to just focus on breathing in the fresh air, but I hear footsteps behind me. Turning my head, I find that Finnick had come from the adjoining compartment, restlessly knotting the strings of a tether bracelet. I let myself study him. Up close, he looks even more attractive than on stage. His bronze hair is blown back by the wind, and his skin bears slight traces of sun. Though his face is hard and his features are chiseled, his eyes hold a trace of softness. He wears a white button-down shirt over dark pants, clothes naturally accentuating his toned figure, and to me, he looks nothing like the fourteen-year-old boy who, on television, had ruthlessly wielded a trident through his opponents during the 65th annual Hunger Games. He looks poised. He looks adapted.

He sees me and flashes his grin while I awkwardly nod and let my eyes fall to the ground. Walking over to stand beside me, he leans his elbows over the railing and watches the sun descend into the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of color. He lets a minute pass, sighs, and turns to me with a humorless smile on his face.

"The Capital doesn't get to see this, you know. They turn their lights on the moment the sky starts to darken."

"The Capital doesn't get to see a lot of things," I mutter angrily, thinking of how disjoint it was from the rest of Panem. Its citizens don't see streets lined with starving people. They don't see how the districts slave away on the other side of the country. They don't see their children kill each other in giant bloodbaths. They don't see anything.

He studies my face for a second before asking, "Annie Cresta, right?"

"Yeah," I say resignedly.

"I think I've seen you before," he pauses before continuing. "You read a poem that one Sunday near the mayor's house. I remember liking it." When I smile in acknowledgement, he pulls himself off the railing and motions for me to come back inside with him. I follow him into a large dining car and find Mags and my district partner already seated at the table, watching a replay of each district's reaping. I find a seat across from them and stay silent, playing with my food. Finnick, sitting beside me, bites into a piece of bread and joins in on the conversation.

"Sponsors won't be a problem, Drake," he almost purrs, using a hand to brush his hair back, "You'll have me." Mags snorts, and I let out a soft laugh.

"Well, Annie doesn't think so," Drake challenges, winking at me. I sink into my seat and let my hair cover my face. Of course he could joke about this. He was a career. He didn't need to take my last days seriously.

Finnick gives me his signature look, "I'm pretty sure she does." With that, he suddenly reaches behind him and switches off the television. His face grows grim, and he studies Drake.

"You've clearly trained for this. What can you do?" he asks. Drake grins and goes off on a list of weapons he can wield, strategies he learned from previous games, and the "obvious" weaknesses of each district. As he talks, I can picture him as a boy, eagerly analyzing killing techniques while parents somewhere grieve for their child. I feel bile accumulate at the back of my throat as I realize that that was real for him, that that was his way of moving forward.

Finnick's expression looks satisfied, but as he glances at me, I see his confidence falter.

"And you, Annie?" I meet his eyes hesitantly and try to think. What skills could I possibly have?

"I-I know how to tie knots, and I can swim. I can run. I can catch fish…" I try to smile at him, but he doesn't return it as he shares a look with Mags.

"Plenty of tributes have gone in there unprepared. Just be sure to pay attention to the trainers and try to learn as much as you can." I just nod in acknowledgement as I try to suppress forthcoming tears. It's true, plenty of tributes _had_ gone in the arena unprepared just as plenty of tributes had died the same way.


	3. Chapter 3

The Capital is far more brilliant than any of the footage shown on television. Lights of every color blink furiously from the tops of imposing skyscrapers down to the walls of underground tunnels. Colorful throngs crowd the streets, and I can hear their wild cheering from the height of the high-speed railways. The windows suddenly go black as my stomach lurches when the train heads into a sharp descent. Soon, we ride alongside close-topped monopeds and bipeds, turning in dizzying circles or rushing past us in whooshing bursts. Chubby children in glittering clothes point at us, and groups of men and women shoot confetti cannons as we pass. Drake steps out onto the balcony and starts waving, and after a few moments, I go and join him. The crowd gets wilder and wilder as the festivities get weirder and weirder. I laugh when a man weaves a parade of people with flamboyant skins through the streets. Seeing that I start blowing kisses, Drake raises his eyebrows and grabs one of my hands to twirl me around. I land in his arms as he grins at the hair splayed across my face.

The train stops at the entrance of a tall, reflective building where a group of pink and blue men and women greet us exuberantly. Drake sets off ahead of me, brushing arms and catching tokens, but when I try to follow, I find myself lost in the sea of bodies, unable to distinguish left from right. Finnick is soon behind me, gently nudging me forward with his hand on the small of my back. I admire his ease with the crowd. He seemed to belong everywhere he went. I focus on moving ahead and avoid tripping over the fluffed shoes and mesh of limbs. The chaos drains my energy, and I try to fight off disillusionment.

When we finally make it inside, Drake and I are separated. I'm placed in an intimidating room and quickly stripped down to my undergarments as three women start poking and prodding my arms and legs.

"Honey, your eyes are so green!" a short lady with panther-like features exclaims while she pries my eyelids open with overgrown nails. "They're perfect for what Isadora has planned!" After they pluck, bathe, and decorate me until they are satisfied, I stumble, clad in a thin robe, out into a drafty corridor leading to a single room. A tall, slender woman with an oblong face and hollow eyes sits among an assortment of fabrics. Her foot pumps an intricate network of peddles while her hands feed blue cloth into a droning machine. When she hears me enter, she rises and extends her hand out.

"Isadora, your stylist," she begins in a hooty voice. As I reach to clasp her hand, she examines me over and lets a slanted smile cross her face. I feel like an immobilized doll who feels every agonizing moment the children manipulate her.

"I think you'll fit your persona," she announces, "This year we're aiming for mythical and exotic, something enchanting and dreamy- Tethys and Oceanus." I give her a quizzical look, but she just waves her hand. It's time for the children to play dress-up.

"Try to look mysterious and alluring." With that, I find myself clad in a sea-green, chiton with an embroidered organza body bound together by silver rope. My hair is braided and pinned around my head with intertwined lace bands, and my skin looks milky pale. My eyes are lined with smoky black pencil as the rest of my face is sprinkled with sparkles. It was definitely alluring.

I am told that I have some time to spare, so I start climbing stairs toward a lobby near the top floor. I let my fingers glide over the ornate railing and practice my dreamy, distant look on those passing by. I feel ridiculous. Pulling open a heavy door, I stand in a glitzy bar and dance club. Everyone is intoxicated. They are always stumbling or flirting provocatively. I look around distastefully. So this was the paradisiacal Capital, where everyone's like a hog, rolling around in a different kind of filth. It's a utopia where there's nothing to hold onto, nothing with any weight as there's nothing ever lost, nothing ever lacking. When everything is squandered in one time carnivals, how can anyone think of moving forward? Is this the culmination of mankind? Is this the pride and glory of Panem?

I am utterly disgusted and turn to leave when a flash of bronze hair catches my eye. I stare overtly. Finnick is seated on a bar stool with his legs stretched out, laughing. His hair is tousled, and his shirt is unbuttoned, exposing a sculpted chest. Capital women flock around him as he seems to be telling some sort of story. He leans into them, playing with their collars or tracing their cheeks, and they, in return, unhesitatingly trail their fingers all over his arms. I watch how his confidence is unfaltering, how he has fifty different expressions all saying_ Finnick Odair_.

When he reaches behind him for a drink, he finally sees me. His eyes widen, and his body tenses. Feeling an irrational wave of betrayal, I don't bother acknowledging him and quickly head toward the door, my thoughts in a jumble. I remember him during his games, how he had flirted and teased his interviewers and had constantly flashed his grins on camera. But _every_ tribute had done that. _Every _tribute was forced to act on stage. It would be a sign of rebellion if they didn't- no one was that thick. Hence, I'd always believed the rumors of Finnick's Casanovanic conquests to be just another part of the illusion- that he really had _no _private playboy life. But now, I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't know what the Capital would make of _me_.

When I reach the corridor leading to the stairs, I feel a hand grab my elbow as I spin around to face him just a few inches from me. His face is expressionless, and I'm suddenly apprehensive. What if I wasn't supposed to be up here? I barely knew Finnick and after what I just saw, I have no idea how he's going to react. His voice is light.

"They dressed you to look like a river," he says calmly as if we were back in our apartments with Mags standing right next to him. "Last year's tributes were pearls sitting in clams." I'm trembling, and I feel so confused. He's pretending that I didn't just see him become one of them. Can't he see that he's betraying his district? Does he really even care about keeping me alive? Who is Finnick? Thoughts muddle together in my head, and the word vomit pours out.

"I don't get it, what you see… why you just… how you can stand them?" I tense when I realize that I might have crossed a line. I've never liked confrontation. It's like challenging a raging bull and waiting for it to come charging back at you. But I don't see Finnick go off because his eyes darken like he had been expecting it.

"The Capital is… complicated," he explains, running his hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. I look at him incredulously.

"What are you playing at?" I burst out challenging him, "What could possibly be complicated about that?" I angrily gesture toward the door, the blood rushing to my cheeks. His hands curl into fists in frustration, like he thinks I can't see something right in front of me. I'm reaching to him from the other side of a glass wall, seeing him clearly but never able to actually touch him, and I almost feel like I'm the one who's wrong despite everything I know.

"Annie," he starts slowly, "Sometimes, it's better to compromise yourself to move forward. Sometimes, what you are doesn't fit with where you are and the only way to even consider a future is to just focus on working with what you have." Finnick bites his lip and looks at the floor almost angrily. A few inches away, I feel the tension of his body, and I almost think he's fighting himself- fighting for composure. His words don't satisfy me at all, and the futility of reasoning with him finally dawns on me. My thoughts unexpectedly divert to Phoebe as an acute wave of homesickness hits me. Phoebe and I had always understood each other. We'd just look at each other and automatically know what the other was thinking. I really wish she was with me. There's a bottomless pit in my chest, and I struggle to breathe.

Finnick watches me with wary eyes, like he's searching for something from within mine. Apparently he doesn't find it, and his expression softens. I try to fight back. I try to feel strong because I don't want anyone's pity, especially his. I hated the look I'd sometimes get in District 4, when they had seen me as a girl beaten and lost from her mother's death. I hated how I'd felt so weak and deficient, like an invalid- like they were watching to catch me when I would finally break down. I was trapped, confined from having to watch my every step- desperately having to fight for my independence.

I feel a cool, strong hand on my own, gently prying my fingers loose from their painful grip on the banister. Finnick holds my hand in his and runs his thumb over my white knuckles.

"You do have a shot in this, you know," he adds softly as I find myself unable to meet his eyes, "You could win this, go back home, and still have a life." I hesitate, a million thoughts running through my mind.

"No one really has a life," I whisper back, holding his gaze for a moment longer before quickly distancing myself back into everyone's Annie. I let Finnick lace his hand through mine and follow him back to the chariots.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_My arms are flailing and my body is writhing and kicking while unyielding arms once again submerge me into the salty waters. I use all of my strength to fight in vain not only against their grip but also a sensation of terror that builds rampantly. All of a sudden, I'm pulled up to the surface and held there as I'm gasping for air. Ahead of me, I see a crowded beach from where people look at me and point, laughing and clapping their hands. "She's so cute, playing with her grandpa!" someone says happily to a friend. The laughing and cheering just gets louder as I struggle and splash against the arms. I know that I am scared and disillusioned, but after a few minutes, I am certain that every person starts turning away from me. A man is suddenly preoccupied by a flock of geese flying in the sky. Children run off into the mainland, and parents chase after them. But when the last eyes start to wander away from me, I'm pushed back into the water and the grip is tighter than before. The moment I'm sure that I'm going to die, I can suddenly breathe again, feel the breeze brush my face, and hear that same man's voice. A couple seconds later, people start turning away, and my lungs are once more on the brink of bursting. _

_It happens over and over again, and every time I rise to the surface, I see the sun gradually lower into the horizon. I am crying, but my tears easily blend in with the sea. My face is swollen and blotchy; however it looks just like a sunburn, and I'm shivering and my skin is frozen, yet the hands hold me underwater so no one can see. I know that I'm going to die as the moon gradually brightens in the sky and people head home in large and larger groups. Now, when I am pulled up into the air and find no one there, I know that this will be my last time, that this time, I will die. I had stopped resisting a while ago, and now, I just want to think of something to ease my pain- I want to see the moon. I want to picture it as I lose consciousness, how I'd seen it illuminate my mother's face when we'd slept on the beach. With that, I turn around and instead of the moon, I'm staring at a man's face. His eyes are almost slits and his skin is dry and wrinkled. Puffy red lips sit on his mouth contrasting with the white curls sitting atop his head. At first, I only feel horror accompanied by a faint familiarity, but it is only when I notice that his arms grip mine that realization fully hits me. _

My eyelids flutter open and I'm trembling from my nightmare. Memories of last night flood my mind as an acute wave of nausea hits me. The crowd had gone wild as the chariots rode out one after another. It was a pulsating interchange of energies. I felt the excitement of the stands and then my own dread, letting the two bounce back and forth until they amalgamated into an overpowering surge of madness, eventually leaving me completely numb to my surroundings.

I let out a dry laugh as I start understanding. Oh, it is such a perfect illusion! It is exactly what my mother had understood, that the Hunger Games were meant to show us how we ultimately fight against what we're fighting for. President Snow shows how there is no such thing as the good of mankind, only for the individual. According to him, rights based on ethics, freedom, and security are not absolute but relative to those who hold power. The Capitol forces us to work for its luxury and can disconnect with our suffering because it values its own comfort more. After the rebellion, the Games remind us that we would readily abandon our dogma of "humanity" and choose to kill our counterparts for the preservation of our individual lives just like the Capitol does for its lifestyle. According to the Capitol, we end up contradicting our own rebel cause, showing Panem how the way it works is justified, how Snow takes it a step further. If it is the individual who can only win, then the Capitol really isn't in control; it's President Snow, as the victor of his own Hunger Games.

As I rode in my chariot, I remember wondering how they were conditioned to see me, realizing shortly after that I was pretty sure I already knew. They saw me as entertainment, something to keep them from getting bored just like I would see the deaths of other tributes as a relief. Why both of those views are so dangerous is what really scares me, because from each perspective, they are understandably rational. But I know that we are trapped and that what we see is limited. What _if_ people could see more? What if they could escape President Snow's grasp and just turn to look at the right time. What if they could choose differently?

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, and I jump out of bed to open it. Finnick, hair wet and skin shining, stands in front of me holding a training uniform and a sheet of paper. He examines me for a second before looking into my room and grinning, his green eyes dancing in the sunlight.

"My, my, I really want to know how Annie Cresta spends her nights," he says, watching me blush as I remember the state of my room. I suppress a snigger when I realize that his comment could easily be turned around.

"Doing nothing, I'm sure, you haven't already done," I reply back softly, trying to play along, my lips curved in a half smile. No wonder he's such a hit with Capitol women. They probably drool all over him when he says stuff like this.

He laughs, evidently caught off guard, and starts leaning in toward me, his voice suddenly low and silky. "Full of surprises, aren't we, Annie?" I stare at the ground and start to shake my head. _It's you who's full of surprises._ I think, remembering how strange he had acted yesterday, how his demeanor had changed so abruptly. _From where do _you_ look, Finnick? What do _you_ see in all of this?_ I stay silent for a while until he speaks, finally getting at something more substantial.

"Training starts in an hour," he tells me, giving me the uniform and paper. "Mags and I made a list of stations that have helped in previous games. Both of you should visit them and try to find allies. They'll increase your chances out there." I'm only half listening. I already know this. I'd watched the Games every year for as long as I'd been alive and seen how the Careers worked. I know how they slowly kill off everyone else until they were the only ones left, how they finally turn on each other- kicking off a ravaging bloodbath. I didn't want to think about that right now. I didn't want to think about how I would soon just be another pawn on President Snow's board.

When Finnick finally leaves, I press my back against the door and feel my mother's necklace. I try to pretend that she's next to me, holding me and saying comforting things, but I can't; I feel her memory slipping away, leaving me blindly grappling through the dark. But I hear her voice, and in my head, I remember it fiercely telling me, "_You have to find out for yourself, Annie. That's why you have to fight."_ And then I realize that I'm all alone in this- that I always have been. 


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

By the time we arrive at the training center almost all of the tributes are already practicing some survival technique. I nervously glance at Drake and our eyes meet for a second before he quickly looks away. Since we arrived at the Capitol, he seemed oddly quiet toward me, letting mostly awkward silences pass between us. I don't know if it's me or something else bothering him so I don't ask him and just keep my mouth shut instead. After standing for a bit in front of the spectator windows, he suggests that we split up to cover more ground and I agree, watching him head straight to the sword-fighting station. While I look around and try to pick a place to start, I start to wonder whether I could be competent at any of these posts. Everything is moving so fast and everyone seems so hard to keep up with. I see stocky boys spear dummies with such force that they fly a couple feet out, stopped only by a sleek, grey wall. In front of me, a thin, haggardly girl points to plants left and right as the trainer continuously nods in approval while to my left, a young boy suddenly pops out of what I had only seen as mud a couple seconds earlier. It was like a giant race against the clock, where every minute is used to gulp down as many tricks and skills as possible. But here I stand, like the grasshopper watching the ants while it savors what's left of summer and ignores the forthcoming winter.

I finally decide to try the knot tying station, duly noting its incongruity with physical strength. The trainer gives me the impression that he'd been bored out of his mind until I came along and immediately shows me dozens of different knots. At first I feel like I'm learning too slowly but I quickly get better as it dawns upon me that what I had perceived to be a mundane task is actually like the different nautical codes back in District 4, where one new symbol or twist turns into completely different things, varying complexity and content. It was a whole world in itself.

When I feel like I had enough knot-tying experience as would be needed in the arena, I go through a good amount of weaponry and survival stations, discovering my performance at best is only mediocre. Sometimes I try to look confident and at others, I pretend that I intend to seem like I'm failing, aware that others would be judging my abilities. Whenever I catch glimpses of Drake, he's always with people who are constantly talking to him and admiring his skills. I sigh. Maybe I wouldn't find an alliance. Maybe I'd just be alone in this. Maybe it'll be over quickly.

I shake my head angrily. I couldn't afford to think like that. To stop fighting, to stop trying to live would be giving the Capitol exactly what it wants from me; it would just reinforce the two options they give us: death or immorality. To succumb to either would just justify Panem and I couldn't do that. I couldn't let them shake my grasp of existence, of my humanity. I would prove how I could win their games and not turn into a Capitol monster. I would not kill; I would survive.

When I reach the next station, I am infused with a new fire, a desire to dominate anything that would cross my path. I observe the trainer carefully as he demonstrates how to hold the sharp discus and throw it the right way. Now, as I try it for myself, I fix my gaze at the dummy, at the spot on his neck, right above where his collar bones meet. My discus doesn't hit it. Instead, it slices through the dummy's leg, and I feel furious for my inadequacy, my failure. I don't bother looking at trainer or acknowledging his suggestions and I impetuously pick another up. This time, I adjust the angle of my arm and stare straight into the dummy's eyes. I picture President Snow- his snake-like smile, his maddening composure, his high-pitch, cackling laugh- and throw with as much force as I can muster. Before I can completely process it, the discus slices through his neck and his head falls to the floor. I let out a triumphant laugh and pick up another to try again. Heads start hitting the ground one after another after another.

I position my arm, just about to start my throw, when a blade, spinning from somewhere behind me, slashes through my dummy's stomach, startling me out of my focus. I feel like a raging panther whose prey has just been stolen from its grasp. My hair swirling in tangles and my muscles trembling from the strain, I catch myself from falling into this feral mindset before turning around to face my aggressor. A girl stares at me with eager, narrowed eyes. In one of her hands, she holds about a half-dozen long knives.

Stepping forward, she extends her other hand and introduces herself, "Isis Brooke." Everything about her screams _danger_. She stands a few inches taller than me and seems to be pulling her head up as if that wasn't enough. Her hair is straight and black, coming down to her shoulders, and her body is so much more mesomorphic than my bony figure. But her eyes are what disturb me the most. They aren't like swirling pools or coated by a layer of liquid gloss like most people's. Instead, they are like black lasers, blind but for the targets through which they burn. If intimidation is her aim, I'm pretty sure she's succeeded.

She doesn't let me speak. "We want you in our group. If you can throw like that, you're definitely worth something." I hesitate before responding, jarred by her penchant. Was I really that good with the discus? Warm delight floods my veins when I realize that I must have been for her to have approached me. But I know couldn't let my emotions control me again; I had to be cautious before throwing myself headfirst into anything. What would they expect from me? To kill? Track? What would they do when they'd realize I'm useless at everything else? Would they murder me in my sleep? Isis, however, doesn't seem like the kind of person who'd take a refusal very well and would somehow make me into public enemy number one. My chances of survival would drop tenfold, and I couldn't afford that.

"Okay," I say simply. When Isis grins, it reminds me of the head boy at our district school, the expression he'd make as he'd answered questions correctly- how he'd been caught the one day he'd tried to cheat.

"If you survive the bloodbath, follow us and we'll set up camp." Her eyes bear down on the floor as she fills me in, cold and calculating. I'm too scared to make an effort to understand her and just stand there trying to devise a plan of escape. Luckily, I don't have to use it because the trainer seems to have decided that we've taken a long enough break and walks over to call us back. Isis waves her hand to me and turns to another station to spar. Watching her leave, I wonder if all this is really as easy for her as she makes it appear.

I had never been social. I had always been the girl who'd lain on the sand with her head buried in books, not one who played silly games with everyone else in the water. I'd spent time with Phoebe, but she was Phoebe, always carefree and bubbly. Maybe I never really understood people to the extent that I had thought I had- how easily they could be desensitized.

Drake catches me brooding instead of sorting plants and comes over to catch up with me. Every time I'd sought him out in the room, I'd seen him with different people. Now, I suppose, he's just joining me because I'm only person he hasn't already talked to.

"Congrats, Isis tells me that you're now part of our pack," he says, his hair falling onto his forehead and his skin glistening in sweat. I should have already known- of course he'd be in the alliance.

Fiddling with a leaf, I purse my lips and reply with a shaky laugh, "At least that's going somewhere in the right direction…" Drake looks at me disbelievingly, and I follow his eyes to the discus station. Maybe self-deprecation will forever be a part of my personality...

"You can't honestly be thinking that, Annie," he reproaches. "You looked good out there. In fact, I'm pretty sure everyone's terrified just thinking about what you could do to them." He winks at me and nudges me with his elbow. I can't help but let the laughter pour out. He smiles, clearly satisfied with the effect of his words, but continues in a serious tone.

"What do you say to making a plan of our own?" he proposes, looking at me expectantly. I give him a puzzled look. A plan? Had he already been formulating strategies while I sat just around hoping to figure out what to expect from the arena?

"We should team up, stay with the Careers as long as we need to, have each other's backs, and then leave when things get bloody. Then we'll- we'll separate." His breath hitches when he says the last word, his voice suddenly going quiet. "Annie, I don't be the one to hurt you. I don't want to watch it either. After everything, back home- school…, I can't do it."

I stare at him, stunned. It was like our conversation had flown light years away in a matter of seconds. When were Drake and I ever close? I'd barely known his name before the reaping; his face was just another one among those I'd see in District 4. What could I possibly be to him? Then, slowly, in a steady stream, memories flicker through my mind.

_I'd grown up with him. He was the kid who snuck away from our group during a field trip to the maritime museum and let loose a bunch of crabs, who picked them off of me when I started screaming my head off and laughed at my "girlishness". He was the project partner who was able to wing any presentation, who'd suddenly alter his playful smile into a concentrated stare. He was the boy who watched a cousin get brutally murdered during the last games, who always stopped by to give his family ice cream or other sweets- who grinned at me when he caught me ogling at Trent Boudin. _

I feel tears well up in my eyes and take a long breath to steady myself. We were a part of each other's lives, people who reminded each other of home, of happiness. If he were to hurt me, it would be like crushing a part of himself. It would shatter the only thing left pure and untainted by the Games, our memory.

_That's why he's seemed distant toward me since the reaping. _I realize. Was he planning it all this time or trying to find a way to tell me? Did our mentors approve of this, let alone know about it?

Drake bites his lip, assessing my reaction. His expression tells me he wants to say something more but isn't sure of the right time to say it. As I look at him, digesting all of this in, I start noticing things about him that I haven't before. Like how his brow is furrowed like he's thinking about something or how his eyes have a far off, hazy quality to them. I don't feel attraction- it's something else that's making me feel closer to him. A sharp pang hits my chest as I think about it.

"Yeah," I finally breath out, "That would be really great." He smiles, and I know he feels it too, how there's a new bond between us in a matter of minutes. How we've found a new resolve to fight for our lives, our families, and each other. 


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

I don't know how long I've been up here. The remainder of the training session had passed by in a blur, and our little moment seemed easily forgotten. Drake and I had quickly resumed congenial conversation and remained by each other's side until we were finally dismissed. The walk back to our compartment, however, had been oddly tense, and it seemed like something had suddenly shattered whatever had been keeping us conversable. Occasionally, I would sense him casting me furtive glances and catch an unsure, tentative expression cross his features, like he had been searching my face for the right time to pass some bad news.

I hadn't known what to make of it. Had he already changed his mind? Did he not want me as an ally anymore? Instead of probing him, I had kept silent, and felt incredibly resigned, almost useless. He had already planned ways to protect himself, to come out of the Games as unscathed as possible; he had planned a future, he _could_ envision something for himself outside of all of this. I started to understand what Finnick had said a little better- _the only way to even consider a future is to just focus on working with what you have. _But what did I have to fight for? What did I have to lose? My mother was dead. My father and Phoebe could easily move on.

When we'd gotten back, my answers to Finnick and Mags's questions were cold and one-word, and I had noticed them shoot each other concerned glances. I know it was unfair, but they had all seemed to me so ministerial, just like I had appeared to be back in District 4. Finnick and Mags had become shields, only meant to protect us- never to be propelling forces of their own. What lives did they have but as servants to their District, to the Capitol? I, likewise, had battled the grief of my mother's death only so that I would not follow her path. Once I had gotten sufficient hold of myself, I had created my own shield, my own outer Annie, who had done everything that was necessary for her basic sustenance, but nothing more. It was as if I had been constantly bracing myself to face fate, to protect myself from falling like my mother had, like my father currently was. It felt like chance was the only thing moving me around, and I had no power to move myself forward.

Something from one of my mother's books flickered in my mind. _The higher up, the greater the fall._ Was I so afraid of falling that I couldn't climb any higher up? Was I destined to live in this lifeless, unhappy middle-ground?

Now, I stand on the roof looking out at the Capitol streets, wishing I could be the Juliet from my mother's stories, wishing that there wasn't a force field blocking off the balcony. Whether it be out of rashness or love, let me feel something other than dread, let me live for something that feels real. If happiness can't be a part of this world, let me make one in which it does exist, even if it lasts only for a short while.

The colors of the sunset are no longer visible as the nighttime lights of the Capitol take their place. As my eye catches a sliver of the moon hidden behind a tall building and I think of how Phoebe and my father might be looking at it too, I hear footsteps coming from behind me. I think they've decided that I've been out here long enough and have come to force me back inside. But I'm not ready to do more of what they want me to. I need more time for myself.

I whip around from the edge of the rooftop, expecting to see a stern-looking Pearl Paarz or a Capitol attendant ready to sedate me but instead find myself facing a wary-eyed Finnick. He looks so striking even in the dim light. The lines on his face are hard, so controlled, like a mask. I must look like a pathetic mess. _So much for the shield_. I think. I soften my eyes, trying to look composed so that reasoning with me wouldn't seem futile. Finnick watches me carefully, and I know that he's expecting me to break any moment now.

"Annie, you should come back inside. It's getting cold," he admonishes in a soft tenor, reaching his hand out for mine. "The cooks left some dinner out for you." My stomach growls almost embarrassingly and I realize that I haven't really eaten all day. But I need more time, and who knows when I'd get it next. Just thinking about the sickly sweet lavender smell of my Capitol room starts filling me with terror.

I try to say as evenly as I can, "I'll go back soon. I-I just need a couple more minutes." I hope that he'll let me, that he'll just go back inside and leave me alone. Instead, he stays silent for a moment and the look in his eyes is almost troubled.

I pretend that his silence implies acquiescence and start turning away to gaze back at the Capitol. But then I sense him beside me, his hands holding the parapet next to mine.

His breath tickles my ear when he begins slowly, like he's chewing the words, "Annie… try to be strong." I feel like I've been slapped in the face. I feel red, hot blood seep into my cheeks, and I ball my hands into fists. Finnick's eyes widen at my reaction. I want to hit him. What else have I been doing? What _exactly_ have I been doing my entire life? How could he even say that knowing absolutely _nothing_ about me, about where I come from? How can he say that when he's stooped to a level lower than all of us? How-how can even go there, when _he's_ completely let himself go to whoredom?

"And you?" I shoot back, spitting the words out. "Exactly _how_ strong are _you_, Finnick? What _exactly_ are you trying to do with your life?" My breathing is ragged as I step away from him, angrily making my way to the door. I know I'm deranged, and I know I'm reactionary. But I also know that I'm sick of the lies, the half-truths. I'm sick of living in this state of limbo where I'm completely powerless because everything around me is a giant contradiction. I feel a hand grab my wrist, stopping me from going any further. Finnick's eyes are smoldering and one of his hands is clenching the parapet. I start to grow frightened. I had never seen Finnick lose control.

When he speaks, his voice sounds low and dangerous. "Do you think I want this? Do you really think I've chosen to throw away everything that matters to me just so I can entertain myself with swinish women? It's a disgusting world out here. It's insidious, corrupt, and full of power mongers who'll stop at nothing to get what they want, and I've been thrown into it." He lets out a dry laugh and looks out at the Capitol. "By surviving the Games, Annie, I never actually saved my life; I gave it away, and now, I sit here watching them play with it, watching them kill off whatever stops me from giving them free reign."

"Then it's hopeless, isn't it, trying to be strong? You've accepted this. This is you." It's a stalemate, a conversation gone nowhere. My world comes crashing down on me once again, and I'm building my own brick wall, simultaneously praying for it to fall down.

"No, Annie. You're wrong. This isn't me. The man you see is the one chained down by weights, not the one who is desperately checking for every chink and crack in his restraints that might set him free. One who can't afford to go mad in his captivity, who can't let them rule him. Annie, it would be easier for me to let go, pretend to be someone I'm not, find a rope and hang myself so I wouldn't have to feel anything. It would be easy, Annie, but I wouldn't be trying."

The look on his face is so earnest that I can't help but start crying as I begin to understand what he's trying to tell me. As I see images of my life, my home, my mother, blur behind a veil of tears, I find myself gently crushed to his chest, my head resting under his chin, feeling overwhelmingly helpless yet unexpectedly comforted. He doesn't say anything, and I'm thankful for it. My weakness is obvious enough. We stay like this for a little while until he speaks, first a bit hesitant but gradually building in confidence with each word.

"Annie," he starts, his voice like velvet. I feel his chest softly rumble against my head, "what if I were to take you into the city?" My breath catches and I quickly ease myself out of his arms. It had only been a few days since the reaping, and it had already felt like I'd created a second life, gotten closer to more people that I was able to push away. Everything was rapidly spiraling out of my hands, and now, I hear this. It was so inappropriate, so out of line. Tributes weren't ever allowed to step out of this building. There was an elaborate security system set up all around the place to ensure that fact. What was he suggesting?


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

I don't think there had ever been a time in my life when I'd been this scared. I think the reaping has put me in a perpetual out of body experience, where my mind is always miles away from what my body decides to do, or in this case, agrees to go. Finnick had been completely serious in his proposal to leave the building, and I, after a lot of persuasion, had rashly agreed to accompany him. I honestly don't remember what exactly he had said that had induced me to follow through with this. My judgment was always careful, deliberate, but for some reason, I had felt like I had nothing to lose, like I had no more stakes to weigh.

It was, surprisingly, very easy to get out onto the Capitol streets. Finnick had led me through a series of tunnels attached to the second basement of the complex. It was a labyrinth, a black market made for illicit dealings and sponsorships. Haggardly men had plastered themselves against the walls, almost as if they were preparing to pounce on anyone who came their way. I had heard the faint sound of sobbing seemingly circling around wherever we traveled. I swear I had witnessed cannibalism. A man was burning a dead woman's flesh and cutting it into pieces to toss into his mouth. It was horrific, what destitution has done to these people. I presumed that they were all criminals, illegal citizens who would be persecuted the moment they stepped out into the open.

We had come out unscathed, however. No one had approached us, and it was as if there was an invisible barrier that separated our presence from theirs. I hadn't been able to clearly see Finnick, but I had felt his hand holding my elbow, gently nudging me forward. His presence was the only thing holding me together. It was the reason why I hadn't frantically bolted back the moment my heart had started to palpitate uncontrollably.

Finnick had told me that he was going to take me to meet someone, a friend of his. As I followed him through the streets, I had wondered who it could possibly be, whether it was one of his Capitol women. The whole walk, I had tried to watch his expression carefully, but couldn't quite make out his purpose for all of this. His eyes were intent, softer than Isis's lasers but definitely fixed on something. Did he think that he needed to further prove his point? Or did he believe that I was still indifferent toward the prospect of death, that I still wasn't trying to be strong? As I had run through his possible motives in my head, I started to feel a greater and greater appreciation for him as a mentor. But soon I'd realized that he would eventually have to watch my death, that this chink in his chains wouldn't get him anywhere. His efforts were inevitably going to fail.

Now, we stand in front of a ridiculous home. The whole thing looks like it's been splattered with paint. Every feature is distorted. There are no windows at all, as all the openings in the walls are blocked off by slabs of marble. The alley we are in is dead silent. It's another part of the Capitol contrasting with its ostentatious party side, dark and underhanded. It feels like the times I'd been at the ocean at night, watching the tides undulate back and forth, the silver moonlight reflecting about the moving waters. I'd felt as if I were standing in the eye of the storm, eerily suspended in time as though the passing days were only a dream. It had been my sanctuary. It had been the one place I'd felt I'd truly belonged, where nothing else but the steady waves and the moonlit sand had mattered. But this is another kind of seclusion. Rather than fill me with comfort, it leaves me feeling really uneasy.

I'm forced out of my reverie when a young man opens the door. He looks like he swallowed something that's really stuck inside of him. All of his actions are awkward, and I almost think that he's choking. I see Finnick meet his eyes for a second with narrowed eyes but he quickly gives him a brusque nod and enters as I follow closely behind. It's like we're in a funnel that's just pulling us deeper in the further we go.

We find ourselves in a dank, dimly lit corridor that keeps going until it turns sharply into the corner. The man follows it, making a gesture with his hand for us to stay behind. Finnick and I are left alone, and I'm shaking, my breathing ragged. I hear my heart pounding through the room. It reverberates against the walls, bouncing back and forth, faster and faster until I'm sure that it's going to break the room.

"Annie, it's okay," he finally says, leaning against the wall. Shadows cover parts of his face and body and highlight the outlines of his jaw and muscles, making him appear incredibly sculpturesque and perfectly chiseled. He holds himself loosely, almost like a puppet, yet at the same time so powerfully, like a stallion reclining by a stream after running through the hills. It's moments like these that make me think that time isn't linear, that we can just be picked up and put down in different places with the same emotions recurring over and over again.

"They do all of this to trick Capitol intelligence. They want this place to look like a detainment center for political prisoners."

"What is it supposed to be?" I ask, watching a mischievous smile appear on his face. I feel like a little girl again, waiting for him to show me something he's holding behind his back.

"You'll see, Annie Cresta." He purrs, his face dangerously close to mine. I shiver as he says my name. _Just tell me, Finnick Odair._

The man comes back into the room and motions for us to follow him. The rhythm of his footsteps clashes with mine, and I start to remember how, when I was little, I would always match my mother's. After she had died, my gait would remind me of her. I'd believed that if I kept walking, I'd somehow fall into the ocean and find her, at least by chance. That's all I ever did.

I hear music coming from somewhere around me, growing louder as we walk, and I sense energy pulsating from the walls. We take an elevator down for what seems to be the longest time until we enter a monumental atrium with a series of rooms and hallways extending out from the sides. It's jam-packed and buzzing with spirits. Wine bottles pop and fizz. Groups of people chat at tables in little room-like booths. A few prismatic waterpipes are scattered around the place from which oozes a purplish smoke that heavily coats the air. Like a snake, it coils around the dance floor, pushing and pulling bodies so that they all bend and sway to the psychedelic beat. I take in the scene, standing like a stone as it starts wrapping itself around me, tugging me forward.

Recovering from the initial shock of finding myself in a place like this, I feel my head grow hot as I realize where he's taken me. I inhale sharply, my heart dropping to my stomach, and turn to face him. What was he trying to prove by taking me to one of his Capitol hotspots? After everything that he'd said, what was he doing? I feel like a fool, a complete and utter fool for actually believing him. He was definitely not that person he claimed to be. Tears stain my eyes and I ball my hands into fists. I would not let him see me cry again.

Luckily, he wasn't looking at me. His neck is craned over my head, his eyes scanning the crowd. I follow his gaze, trying to discern what he was looking for, what was it that was so bad about this place that needed to be hidden from the Capitol. His eyes finally lock on something that I don't see.

"Follow me and stay close," he says, turning to me with his hand outstretched, looking clearly distracted. I hesitate.

"Finnick," I try to say as assertively as I can, "take me back." It comes out pathetically, like a mouse trying to plead with a lion.

His face remains still for a moment before he says quietly, "You don't see it, do you?" I look up at him bewildered. What was there to see? I quickly scan through the crowd again to find what I'd missed but don't meet any success. I shake my head and look at him expectantly.

"Annie, look carefully," I let out a frustrated sigh and concentrate on what I'm looking for. All I see are people guffawing and carousing. There's a game of cards going on in a far corner and a man ogling someone in the other. He looks strange, almost devilish. I watch him for a couple of seconds as he writes something down on a pad of paper. Someone bumps into him and his pen slips out of his hand and bounces onto the floor. As he bends down to pick it up, the side of his collar folds down, exposing the nape of his neck. That's when I see it, a bright red symbol seared onto his skin. Suddenly, I see them on everyone, the dancers, the card players, the bartenders. They were all—

"Branded," I whisper, horrified.


End file.
